


Campo di Marte

by boom_slap



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, M/M, Missing Scene, that's it there's literally nothing else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:02:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25047343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/pseuds/boom_slap
Summary: A missing scene on a train station in Florence.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 12
Kudos: 68





	Campo di Marte

The _Campo di Marte_ train station is bathed in brisk sunlight, the early morning slowly bringing Florence back to life, filling the city with the sounds of hushed conversations, tires scratching against asphalt, church bells, morning deliveries arriving before the backdoors of restaurants, crows squawking loudly as they fly above the station.

There's a crisp in the air, the kind that pinches one's cheeks and turns each breath into steam, a sparse cloud blending right in with the fog that looks white and enchanting in the stark, warm light.

The _Campo di Marte_ , currently bathed in brisk sunlight while also enveloped in heavy fog, is smaller and emptier than the _Santa Maria Novella_ station, with no roof above it, just a railway overpass with a mesh fence, but the trains to Rome depart from there nevertheless and then, from Rome, the rails go all the way to Palermo and so, Andrés knows for sure that this is where he'll find him on this cold morning.

He climbs the steps and stops right at the top, on the overpass; looking down, through the fence, he spots him instantly, intuitively, although he cannot see his face, although he's nothing but a figure standing on the platform, not any different from the few others.

Andrés looks, and he thinks that his leather jacket is too thin, and he doesn't have a scarf, and his ears surely must be red at the tips.

The _Campo di Marte_ is looking beautiful this morning, but he's keeping his head down, clutching at the strap of the bag thrown over his shoulder, a suitcase standing at his feet, an old, worn-out thing that's been to Paris and Madrid and Berlin, but won't find its way to Toledo.

The train arrives after a few minutes; it's one of the old ones, a little bit rusty, but a stunning machinery nevertheless, full of charm and sentimental. It stops, and Andrés watches as he picks up the suitcase, takes one hesitant step-

Then another two, resigned, shoulders slumping even more, and then he's climbing the two steps and disappearing behind the doors, in the corridor; Andrés thinks he catches one last glimpse of the profile, and the ruffled brown hair, right there, through the window of the train.

The _Campo di Marte_ station is looking beautiful this morning, the sunlight brisk and warm, the air cold and crisp, and the tears that haven't fallen the night before are now burning hot on Andrés' cheeks. 


End file.
